The King's Questioner

by Nikki Katz

  He dropped the dishes with all the other dirty ones in an overflowing barrel and slipped out. Within minutes he was outside the castle walls altogether. He followed the main path away from the gates and immediately wove through the side streets to dodge the marketplace at the center of town. It would be mostly cleared out at this hour, with only a few remaining vendors packing up their goods and townspeople haggling for a last-minute deal, but Kalen avoided it anyway.

  He walked along the avenues, twisting back and around at seemingly random intervals. A spy himself, Kalen knew the king employed many others, and this time he preferred to keep his whereabouts unknown. While always on the lookout for information, he would rather have an hour or two to relax, and this time not have to use his magick.

  Kalen kept to the shadows, even though it would have been cleaner to avoid the refuse collecting in the alleyways. A sharp left and he stood in front of his favorite place of solace.

  The Milked Goat.

  He still thought it was a ridiculous name for an establishment, but, like every other night, when he pushed through the doors, he was greeted with the noise and sour scent of a crowd. The low ceiling didn’t help either of those, nor did the fire roaring in the hearth against the back stone wall. A fiddler held court in the corner, and a few girls lifted their skirts to twirl on a makeshift dance floor in front of him. A table had been set up for cards in the back of the room, and a group crowded the counter where Reap—the tavern keeper nicknamed for the tattoo rippling up his forearm—was making his signature drink.

  He cracked several eggs into a pitcher and whisked them together, showing off his massive biceps to the girls who seemed intent on staring. Pouring in rum and molasses, Reap continued to beat at the mixture. He added in a seemingly random amount of beer and then paced to the hearth. A fire poker rested in the flames. Reap grabbed the handle and lifted it up over his head so as not to maim anyone with it. He plunged it into the pitcher and stirred quickly, creating a frothy drink that steamed and sizzled. He tossed the cooling poker to the side and poured the concoction into the already waiting mugs lining the counter. Patrons scooped them up, clinking them together in cheers before chugging the drink.

  Kalen stepped to the end of the counter and tipped his head in acknowledgment.

  “Usual?” Reap asked as he used a stained, damp towel to mop up the alcohol that had spilled as he poured. Kalen glanced around, looking for a clean one to throw him, but there were none to be found.

  He waited as Reap reached for a mug under the bar and poured boiling water over tea leaves. Kalen never drowned his sorrows in anything stronger than caffeine. Alcohol left him too susceptible to letting his guard—and his gloves—down. Cirrus, on the other hand, would have joined in with the rest of the patrons to gulp a mug of Reap’s mixture.

  Kalen took a gulp of the tea, threw Reap a coin, and made his way to the card table. He collapsed into the lone vacant chair and traced his gloved finger along the familiar crack running down the curved wooden arm.

  He hated gambling but loved anything that served to sharpen his mind. Kalen could focus on both the game and the conversations going on around him, tucking away details, like love letters to dissect later. It was a great way to gather information. Not exactly sanctioned by the king, but if Kalen used his knowledge of the kingdom’s happenings while in someone’s memories, he could complete the questioning much quicker and get out of their minds.

  “Keepin’ busy?” Damien, the young fisherman sitting to his right, asked.

  “Same as always.” After pushing a pile of coins to the dealer, Kalen was dealt a hand. “How’s it going at the docks?”

  “Good. Brought in at least three barrels o’ crawfish this afternoon.”

  Kalen glanced quickly at his own hand. A pair of knaves and a run of three clovers. He continued chatting with Damien while he watched the other players discard and receive new ones. One of the regular players rubbed at his chin, a tell that Kalen knew meant he had a good hand. Play reached Kalen, and he immediately tossed the clovers on the table and requested three new cards.

  “I swear, ya don’t even pay attention to what yer doin’,” Damien said with a shake of his head. He folded his cards and stretched his arms so his hands laced behind his head. “There was some interestin’ activity today.”

  Kalen nodded encouragement. This information was what kept him returning to the Milked Goat.

  “A new ship came in. I woulda guessed it was a pirate ship, what with the black hull and black sails, but the constable came down ta greet ’em and take ’em somewhere private.”

  Black sails. Antioegen. Antioege was the port city of the kingdom of Ehren, situated just north of their own. He wondered why the ship was in port. It wasn’t part of the normal trading cycle, as the moon was nearing full and the winds were not cooperative.

  As Kalen pondered this bit of information, he picked up his new cards and added them to his hand. He slid them apart just enough to see he’d been dealt another knave and two minstrels. He tossed a coin into the middle of the table to increase the bet. Two players folded, but the fifth, an older gentleman sitting on Kalen’s left, called Kalen’s bet and raised him. Kalen bit back a sigh, knowing the man was about to lose. He matched the bet, and the dealer signaled for the gentleman to show his cards. Two pair. Kalen flipped over his own cards to reveal the full ship.

  The gentleman pursed his lips in defeat. “You win some and lose some. Good game.” He pushed away from the table, and a waif of a girl slid into the vacant seat. Her hooded cloak mostly covered her shock of silver hair, and her equally silver eyes turned to Kalen.

  Luna.

  She blinked lazily at him, and her lips tugged into a half smile.

  Kalen couldn’t help but smile in return, but then clamped his lips shut. He was supposed to be angry with her. A week ago he’d asked her to be his lookout, and she had disappeared. This was the first time he’d seen her since, and he had questions to ask. Why she’d left. Where she’d gone.

  The dealer passed out another round of cards, and Kalen drew his close. Not a good hand, but he didn’t care. He slid four of the cards away, keeping only the wizard of clover.

  Luna asked for only one new card, and play moved around the table until it reached Damien. He appeared intent on staying in the hand, his tongue caught between his front teeth as he debated which cards to surrender.

  “How many ships were there in all?” Kalen asked him.

  “Damien finally dropped two cards to the table. “Just the one. Came in kind of late.”

  Kalen mulled this as he was dealt two more wizards for three of a kind.

  But wait.

  He glared at Luna and cleared his throat. She raised her silver eyebrows as she rearranged the cards in her hand. The long sleeves of her cloak billowed out at the wrists, offering a glimpse of the tattoos that he knew traced up her arms and down her torso. Twisting loops of chains and rose stems, covered in thorns. They circled her neck and waist, too.

  “Give it back,” he said out of the side of his mouth.

  “Give what back?”

  “My wizard.”

  Luna was a thief, and a good one at that. He hadn’t even realized she’d swapped out his card with a squire.

  “I have no idea what you mean.” She fluttered long eyelashes in his direction and pushed several coins toward the center as she raised the bet.

  A yawn stretched the mouth of the player at her side. Monet was an aristocrat in his midthirties, known to spend his inheritance on gambling, women, and ridiculously expensive clothing … not necessarily in that order. He shoved a stack of coins to the center, raising Luna’s bet.

  When play returned to Damien, he folded his hand. Kalen was quick to follow suit, tossing his cards on the table. Luna was about to run the table, and he didn’t need to add his coins to her winnings, not that it much mattered. Her gaze flitted from her cards to the coins and back again until Monet slapped his palm to the table in annoyance. Finally, s
he pushed all her money to the center. “All in.”

  “Oh come on,” Monet said. “I’m not falling for that.” He pushed another stack in to match her.

  Luna grinned and flipped her cards. A flush of clovers, wizard high.

  Monet growled as he turned over a straight. “You’re cheating again.”

  “Who, me?” Luna feigned innocence while the coins disappeared into her sleeves. She rose from the table. “I’d say I’m sorry to have to limit your time with Jezebel this evening.” She tossed the last coin to the dealer. “But I’d be lying.”

  She strode toward the exit but stopped midway and turned to look over her shoulder. “By the way, that hat is ridiculous.”

  Monet stroked the scylee bird feather stretching away from the brim and glared at her. Kalen gathered his coins and followed her out. It wasn’t difficult to catch her, considering her stride was probably half of his, but the second he was within reach, his gloved hand gripped her shoulder. Luna had a way of disappearing into the shadows, and he didn’t want to lose her.

  “You could have been a little more subtle,” he said, when she stopped and turned to him.

  “He’s weak. Besides, he wouldn’t do anything that puts him in poor favor with my mother…” Her eyes widened at something behind him, and Kalen spun around. Monet had stormed out of the Milked Goat and now walked in their direction.

  “Return it to me.” He nearly spat the words as he held out a hand, palm facing up, toward Luna.

  “Return what, exactly?” She widened her deceptively innocent silver eyes and stared at Monet.

  “My. Pocket. Watch. Return. It. Now.” His hand shook with fury. He lunged forward, but before he reached Luna, Kalen had whipped off a glove.

  “Be careful.” Kalen wiggled his fingers. “I’m sure you have some secrets you don’t want spread around town.”

  Monet’s eyes narrowed to slits, but he stepped quickly away. “Keep your hands to yourself, freak.”

  “I suggest you do the same.”

  “She took something from me.” Monet glanced quickly to Luna and then back to Kalen, not risking taking his eyes off the questioner. “It’s a family heirloom. Give it back.”

  “Fine.” Luna reached into her cloak and pulled out a golden watch strung on a thin chain. She tossed it to him. “I figured it was no use to you since you always run over on time at the brothel.”

  He cradled the watch and tucked it into the interior pocket of his coat before readjusting his hat and walking toward the tavern.

  As soon as the door shut behind him, Kalen turned to face Luna. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.” He shoved his fingers into the glove.

  “Kalen, you don’t always have to come to my defense.”

  She was right, but still. She was his friend. “Why did you let yourself get caught?”

  She snorted. “I’m pretty sure I would have been home already if you hadn’t stopped me to give me a warning.”

  “I stopped you because we need to talk.”

  The clock tower began its toll, ending with a single chime.

  “It’s late, and I need to get back.” What was late for the rest of the city was early for her mother’s business.

  “We still need to talk,” Kalen said.

  “You know where to find me.” Luna tossed a grin over her shoulder as she walked away. A second later she was gone.

  CHAPTER

  3

  A loud knock woke Kalen the next morning.

  “You dressed?” Terrack’s voice rang through the door.

  “Does it matter? The door is locked.”

  Kalen stretched and rose from the pallet before walking over to open the door. Terrack blocked the hallway with his bulk, and his mouth moved like a horse’s as he chewed on a piece of bark. “Actually, I just wondered if you had a girl in there.”

  “Have I ever had a girl in here?”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Terrack smirked.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company so early in the day?”

  “I’ll give you one guess.”

  Kalen steeled himself for yet another headache. “Give me a minute.”

  He shut the door and splashed water on his face from the basin. He quickly changed and grabbed a pair of gloves before returning to the hallway. Terrack hadn’t moved. Kalen shut the door, turned the key in the lock, and followed the large man down the hall.

  “Who is it?” Kalen asked.

  “Ship captain,” said Terrack. “Arrived yesterday.”

  The Antioegen ships Damien mentioned.

  Kalen’s worry over his impending headaches disappeared. This would be interesting. Much more interesting than a woman falsely accused of stealing correspondence.

  They wound down the curved staircase into the darkness of the cellar. Rough stone walls caught at the sleeves of his coat, as if clawing him into the depths. The cool air was thick with moisture that gathered at the back of his neck. They reached the cellar floor, and Terrack turned in a different direction than the one leading to Kalen’s normal interrogation room. Kalen’s chest heaved with a silent sigh. This way were the holding cells.

  Kalen despised having to go into the mind of someone shackled by chains.

  They approached the two cells, heavy doors facing each other from across the narrow hallway. The slits in one door allowed flickers of dusty light to dance into the hall. Terrack pushed that one open, and Kalen got his first glimpse of the prisoner.

  The captain was tall, in his midthirties perhaps, with sun-weathered skin. Limp, long hair fell into his eyes, one of which was nearly swollen shut. He stood upright, his arms hanging at his sides. His wrists were wrapped in metal cuffs threaded with a heavy chain linked to the wall behind him through a ring just above his head. His breaths came fast and shallow, like he couldn’t fully inhale. Kalen imagined that underneath the captain’s jacket and all those gold buttons were whip marks or bruising … or both.

  “Why is he in chains?”

  “The Law’s orders. He put up a good fight when he arrived.”

  The prisoner attempted a laugh but winced as soon as his chest expanded. The sound was more of a wounded cough.

  Footsteps echoed in from the hall behind them, and the King’s Law swept into the room. His black cloak swirled and settled around him, flashes of the green silk interior visible as he threw back his shoulders.

  “Good. You’re here.” Ryndel nodded at Kalen. “I think we’re ready to get started.”

  Ryndel grabbed one of two stools tucked into the corner and placed it behind the prisoner. He kicked forward, knocking the captain’s legs from behind so they buckled and he fell back against the hard seat. His arms lifted awkwardly as the chairs held firm, making him look like a wounded marionette. Ryndel leaned in. “I would suggest you behave yourself.”

  Kalen waited until Ryndel had returned to his side. “What am I looking for?” he asked.

  “The ship was carrying valuable cargo. It’s no longer on board, but Captain Belrose here denies ever seeing it. I want to know what happened.”

  Silence filled the room.

  “Well?” Ryndel raised his hands in impatience. “What are you waiting for? Get started.”

  “What exactly is the cargo?” Kalen hated the vagueness of these requests.

  “I’d rather not disclose further information. You’ll know it if you see it. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Kalen sighed and removed his gloves. He stuffed them into the interior pocket of his vest and turned to Terrack. “I’m going to need tea. Double brewed.” Terrack called into the hall for a steward.

  Kalen stepped forward until he was toe-to-toe with the captain. “I’m going to touch your hand. It won’t hurt, but please remain still. Otherwise they’ll make this a lot less comfortable.”

  Belrose stared at the wall behind Kalen’s head.

  Kalen grabbed the other stool and sat on its edge. He leaned forward, stretching his bare fingers and thumb to encirc
le the captain’s wrist, above the manacle. Before he could dive into the man’s mind, Belrose thrashed and broke the connection. Kalen stood abruptly, the stool rocking once before it fell on its side.

  “He warned you.” Terrack grabbed the chain and hauled the captain to his feet. He kicked the stool to the side and then yanked on one end of the chain so the slack tightened and the links slid through the manacles. Belrose was forced to shuffle backward until he stood flat against the wall. Terrack continued to pull, wrapping the chain around his hand and elbow in a looping motion. Belrose’s wrists were now pulled together and his arms stretched above his head. Terrack didn’t stop until the captain was nearly on tiptoe, his back arched.

  Belrose didn’t bother to flinch.

  Terrack pushed one of the links onto a hook in the wall to lock the chain in position before pulling the coiled links from his arm. He squatted and grabbed two additional manacles lying open on the floor. He attached them to Belrose’s ankles with a second set of chains and stood.

  “He’s all yours.”

  Kalen righted his stool and dragged it over to the captain. He sat and eyed the strip of skin exposed between Belrose’s shirt and the waist of his trousers. It was much more intimate than the wrists, but Kalen couldn’t remain standing the entire time. This would have to do.

  With a deep breath, Kalen touched Belrose’s waist and spiraled into the captain’s thoughts.

  He walked along a cliff that butted up against the edge of a stormy sea. Lightning-fast flashes of memories glimmered. A few locked chests rested along the path, presumably holding some of the captain’s recent secrets. If there were missing cargo, Belrose would have most likely locked the thought away.

  Kalen removed the key from around his neck. He squatted on the rocky ground and inserted it into one of the chests. His mind shifted the shape of the key’s metal blade and bits to fit the grooves and nuances of the lock. He sensed the ward spacing, the heights and angles, and made adjustments accordingly.